Our senior class
First in a series
by Katherine Riepe ’06

As alumni, we share nostalgia for our alma mater, celebrate its traditions and take pride in its success, but none of this occurs simply through the might, charm or longevity of the institution. Young people come to college, take on challenges, make friends and live a life enriched by opportunity and experience often exceeding what they expected. This article begins a series of profiles on some of our most senior alumni from our first 10 years of graduating classes. They are still vital, learning, giving—and still often exceeding expectations. Their stories offer a glimpse of who we are as an alumni family and who we may hope to become.

Jessie Long Satterlee ’29
Her friends say she’s not just lucky—she’s blessed. And that seems an apt description of Glassboro’s most senior alumna as she stands in her bright blue kitchen illuminated by the summer sun, radiating the good fortune her long life has brought.

Jessie Long Satterlee was born in 1910 and raised in Millville, where her parents worked in one of many glass factories that then dotted South Jersey. In 1926, fulfilling a childhood desire to become a teacher, Satterlee enrolled at the tuition-free Glassboro Normal School.

“Being in school was fun for me,” she says. And she vividly remembers taking the train from her Millville home each day, with no worry about finding a parking space.

She attended the institution in its infancy, when its existence depended on icons that remain immortalized today: the stern Principal Jerohn Savitz and College Hall, known today as Bunce Hall.
In those days, students entered the Normal School with a common objective—to become teachers. Satterlee was assigned to Section 8, one of two student groups specializing in secondary education.

“The school was so small, I felt as if I knew everybody.” However, when she arrived, she knew no one, but later emerged with lifelong friends, particularly Marion Prosch ’29, a friendship that endured decades after graduation. “I was glad that they arranged the classes the way they did, because if we could’ve chosen where we wanted to go, we’d have stayed with all Millville people. I didn’t know anybody, but I got to know everyone else, and made close friends, especially Marion.”

She recalls that every course emphasized the practical application of pedagogical techniques. “It was always methods, methods, methods,” says Satterlee, “We never had geography or language arts. It was always methods of teaching geography, or methods of teaching language arts. And as if that wasn’t enough, we had one course called methods of teaching!”

She also remembers learning additional methods to help ace job interviews by mastering pronunciation. Every hopeful graduate learned to conceal a Jersey accent under a calculated, nonregion-specific set of phonetic rules. To potential employers, perfect diction indicated a proper education.

Glassboro’s first president—the principal in those days—commanded respect, but took pride in knowing students by name. “Good morning Miss Maifarth,” said Savitz to Satterlee while patrolling the corridors between classes. “Good morning Dr. Savitz,” she replied, never correcting him. Recalling the repeated incidents of mistaken identity, Satterlee laughs, “I couldn’t wait to see who Miss Maifarth was, and I was kind of flattered when I finally saw her picture!”

Satterlee also fondly remembers Grace Bagg, the president’s affable secretary, who really did know the students, and as Satterlee says, “She was the glue that kept the place together.”

And if Grace Bagg was the glue, then Principal Savitz was the guardian of the moral fiber that kept his students out of trouble. “I can’t remember anybody going astray. Everybody conformed.”

Every Friday, students were expected to attend a morning chapel period, when Savitz would address the student body and invite distinguished speakers to help inspire the future teachers to continue on their path of righteous academic toil. “We lined up out in the hall, when the orchestra started to play. We walked in and were seated, as Dr. Savitz presided over the room.”

Savitz would lead the opening prayer and introduce guest speakers seated on the platform. “We were taught the Lord’s Prayer, but if we didn’t want to say it, we didn’t have to.” However, students were expected to sing, and music director Florence Dare made sure to call any dissenters to sing at the front of the auditorium.

In addition to their studies, students at Glassboro had plenty of time for athletics and clubs. “In gym we would go out and play field hockey on the green (the area in front of Bunce Hall),” says Satterlee, who also played side center during basketball games in physical education class. “But I enjoyed drama and music more than I did sports,” she says, remembering her days as a member of the Normal School’s Glee Club.

Like other commuters, Satterlee had a life off campus. “I worked at the Five-and-Ten store on Saturday nights, for four hours at 17 cents an hour. These days you couldn’t get anyone to work for that!” Nevertheless, Satterlee often had enough money to eat in the school cafeteria, located in the College Hall basement. Among commuters, it was rumored that Savitz would occasionally have dinner there with the dorm students, revealing the fatherly side of the strict administrator.

Satterlee also experienced a piece of the school’s heritage that only a minority of its graduates has known—the idyllic Camp Savitz where students and faculty would go to escape the rigors of academic life. Located in Elmer, the parcel of land purchased by the newly established alumni association brought the beauty of the outdoors to students from the cities. “We canoed, took walks in the park there. It was like a picnic,” says Satterlee. Though she never participated in the overnight camping trips with the dorm girls, she cherished the days spent wading in Greenwood Lake with her friends.

Although there were no coed trips to Camp Savitz permitted at the time, men and women students had plenty of opportunities to mingle. “We had dances, and they were fun. Of course you couldn’t take the boys from the school because there were only four boys for almost 200 girls… I knew some girls from Elmer. When we had dances, they brought hometown boys.” Students arrived at the school gym with dance cards filled out—the first and last dances always reserved for their dates. “There was never any trouble at the dances. Everyone behaved. It was a different world.”

Just as Rowan University’s education majors dedicate part of their time to actual teaching experiences, Normal School students had extensive practice teaching for their last two years. In the first year, Satterlee completed what was called “preliminary teaching” in the Newfield School District in Gloucester County. The second year was “responsible teaching,” giving students a chance to take the reins and put their newfound skills to work. Satterlee served her second year of practice teaching in Pitman. Though it was closer to the school, she missed the familiar Newfield, where she had received an introduction to her lifelong passion the previous year.

After graduation, many students had trouble finding employment, but Satterlee landed her first teaching job in Newfield. She spent one year there as a half-day teacher. “Jobs were scarce at that time,” says Satterlee. She taught the next year at Millville, where she remained for the next 11 years before taking eight years off to start a family. She returned to teaching in 1949, but was unable to work in Millville because a new policy required a bachelor’s degree.

So Satterlee went to the Charles F. Seabrook School in Upper Deerfield Township in Cumberland County. After earning her bachelor’s degree in 1952, she returned to Newfield and stayed there for seven years, teaching seventh and eighth grades. While there, she developed the junior high school chorus. In 1967, Satterlee returned to Millville to teach at the Culver School, where she remained until she retired in 1972.
Satterlee’s life is a phenomenon that continues to inspire those around her. At age 96, she still lives in her well-kept Millville home, though she’s hardly a homebody. Her passions include lunch dates with friends and trips to Avalon’s beaches with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And although Principal Savitz may have mistaken her name as a student, the alumni family knows Satterlee well. Her longevity is truly a gift to her family, friends and the University community.

Ferrar Renzulli ’33
Ferrar Renzulli ’33 was one of only two males in his class of future teachers at Glassboro Normal School. “When I got there I thought, ‘What did I get myself into?’ I think all the girls thought we were odd,” laughs Renzulli.

The 95-year-old Landisville native comes from an Italian immigrant family whose livelihood depended on their farm. In 1920, the advent of Prohibition compromised the Renzullis’ income, which relied partly on their vineyards. Although just a child then, Renzulli remembers when factories closed and a post-World War I recession cut produce sales. He also recalls when the Great Depression touched even rural Landisville just a few years later.

Farmers provided enough food to sustain their families and neighbors, but low crop prices and overproduction soon led to property foreclosures. Struggling families often depended on the compassion of others to get them through the crisis. In his memoir, A Walk Back in Time in the History of My Town (2002), Renzulli addresses one such instance.

The town physician, Dr. J.P. Cleary, charged $2 for house calls, which often included pill remedies. “Some promised to pay and kept their promise; some due to prolonged hard times were not able to pay. Some paid in kind such as farm eggs, a basket of peppers or some such exchange. He in turn gave this accumulated ‘wealth’ to poor families. There were many baby deliveries in our area by Dr. Cleary that were paid in kind. He was a true humanitarian and it is my hope that his name and his deeds will be remembered in perpetuity.” Renzulli’s work ensures that Cleary and other community members will never be forgotten. In 2004, the Borough of Buena mayor and town council adopted his written account as an official historical document.

One of 13 children whose mother passed away in 1922, Renzulli was left to shoulder the financial burden of his education alone. After graduating from Vineland High School in 1929, Renzulli saved enough money to float the matriculation fees and two months’ tuition at Temple University, where he planned to study journalism. He hoped to land a job to cover the rest of his expenses once the school year began. That year, Renzulli received an up-close view of the immediate effects of the famed “Crash of ’29.”

“I’d saved up $200 for the tuition, but after the fees, most of my money was gone, so I had to leave in October,” he said. He walked Philadelphia’s streets in search of a job, without success. “Here I was, a country boy, and for the first time in my life, I saw bread lines. Soup lines on Market Street formed overnight, along with beggars on every corner. I saw people selling apples between 10th and 11th Streets.”

After leaving Temple, Renzulli returned home and took shorthand and bookkeeping courses at a local high school to learn the skills needed to find an office job. On his instructor’s advice, he took the entrance exam to matriculate at the tuition-free Glassboro Normal School and was accepted. Once Renzulli enrolled in 1930, the $7 per month train fare from his home in Minotola to the school remained his only expense.

The 10-year-old teacher-training school had already earned a reputation for producing well-qualified graduates. Renzulli’s was the second class to go through a three-year program rather than the two-year certification program begun in 1923. The administration was in transition, as Seymour Winans was named acting principal while Jerohn J. Savitz took a leave of absence for medical reasons.

Even in 1933, Glassboro students had a penchant for partying. Renzulli’s circle of friends included a young woman who had access to a car—a rare occurrence in those days. He remembers riding to an off-campus park to enjoy a smuggled bottle of wine far from the vigilant eyes of Principal Savitz.

But students didn’t always need covert operations for unsupervised fun. Renzulli remembers the school-sanctioned trips to Camp Savitz, the legendary getaway. He belonged to the men’s club, Rho Sigma Nu, which arranged bus transport for coveted weekend camping trips. “I was usually the camp cook,” said Renzulli, recalling spaghetti cookouts, when he treated classmates to his Italian culinary skills. He’d assumed the responsibility of preparing meals for his younger siblings after his mother passed away, so Renzulli was no novice in the kitchen.

Even academic life at the Normal School had lighthearted moments. Renzulli recalls Marion Emory’s English class, when students were to compose original nursery rhymes for children. Renzulli’s friend Earl Davis sent the class and the professor into an uproar of laughter with his version of the assignment. “Fishy, fishy in the brook, how I love to look and look. My sister had a goat.” Another of his poems read, “Mother, mother where’s my hat? It’s just where you put it at?”

When Renzulli’s Normal School years ended, he held a certificate to teach grades one through eight. He found his first teaching job in a one-room schoolhouse with a corner furnace in Newtonville, Atlantic County. There, Renzulli taught kindergarten through fourth grade. “I have always held kindergarten teachers in very high regard. They should get more money than the middle school and high school teachers because they have to play many roles,” he laughs. Renzulli continued to teach in Newtonville for two years before working in Buena Vista Township, Landisville, Minotola and Vineland schools.

Renzulli and his wife Mary married in 1943 and in 1944 moved to Oakhurst, where he taught physical education and hygiene classes. However, that Thanksgiving, Renzulli received a phone call that changed his career and his life. The Vineland schools superintendent was eyeing him to fill an opening as a vocational agriculture teacher—with a hefty salary increase.

Renzulli couldn’t contain his disbelief and asked, “Why would anybody call me in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner? Are you bluffing?” Eager to leave the politics and favoritism of the small Monmouth County school, Renzulli acquired a temporary certificate to teach at Vineland, which offered $2,100 per year plus a 15 percent bonus. His salary at Oakhurst was $1,700 plus a 15 percent yearly bonus.
At Vineland, Renzulli supervised the agricultural education programs. “I had no idea what to do, but I soon learned.” He also directed a citizenship program designed to help immigrants adjust to American society and find jobs and supervised evening classes and the adult education program.

In 1945, Renzulli earned a bachelor’s degree from his alma mater, which by then had become Glassboro State Teachers College. He earned a master’s degree from Rutgers University in 1950, but a career change in 1951 led Renzulli to the poultry business. His company, Vineland Poultry Laboratories, developed vaccines and products for livestock. During the sixties, the business went international, with Renzulli appointed as director of foreign sales. “It was the nicest job I’ve ever had,” he says.

His career took him all over the world. Renzulli and Mary traveled to Europe, Central and South America and Asia. However, the hospitality he experienced during his first trip to Japan left an indelible impression. “They took me by train, by plane, by bus and by taxi. I was treated like royalty; I was embarrassed!” His Japanese clients gave him four congratulatory handshakes for the United States’ moon landing. Renzulli made sure to schedule several return trips during the years that followed.

In 1971, the U.S. Department of Commerce instituted a program to increase the country’s exports. As export sales manager for Vineland Poultry Laboratories, Renzulli was charged with increasing foreign sales. Despite having to temporarily stop production of poultry vaccines, the company increased its sales and won a presidential recognition. Two years later, Renzulli left the company to develop a business of his own, F. Renzulli Inc., which he headed before selling it in 1983.

Renzulli believes that his experience as a teacher helped him throughout his business career. Even in his community service work, Renzulli promoted learning. From 1974-1984, Renzulli served on the Atlantic County Library Commission, four years as its chairman. He worked with the Atlantic County freeholders to build a county-wide library system, which was established in 1981. And he didn’t forget his alma mater. At age 92, Renzulli served as grand marshal of Rowan’s 2003 Homecoming parade.

He also has kept up with technology. Eight years ago, he decided to become computer literate. “I was always fascinated by how much and what computers can do. So in 1998, I mentioned to my wife and son that I was thinking of getting one. Both said I was nuts even thinking about one at my age of 87… I asked my granddaughters, and both replied it was ‘cool’ and encouraged me to get one.” With his granddaughters’ help, he mastered the basics and today he skillfully surfs the Internet.

Renzulli and Mary feel fortunate to have spent 63 years of marriage together. The couple spend their days surrounded by their loving children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. As Glassboro’s oldest alumnus, Renzulli has outdone his early fame as a minority in a female-dominated environment. His post-graduate success validates the prophetic quote under his photo in the 1933 Oak:

“‘Fred’ is fifty percent of something which one hundred percent of us can never be. He is fifty percent of the boys in the class of ’33. Realizing the importance of his position early in his Normal School career, he has conducted himself with the poise necessary to the upholding of it.”

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Katherine Riepe ’06 is the graduate assistant at University Publications. She is studying for her M.A. in public relations and teaches weekly yoga classes. Contact her at kriepe84@yahoo.com.